Domesticated Rumbelle
by SogniDoroBella
Summary: A series of drabbles and one shots of domestic Rumbelle, set in Storybrooke. A friend on tumblr noted the brief scene in Gold's home during "Crocodile" is the closest we get to the ordinary everyday Rumbelle, domestic moments. This is my imaginary season 3. Enjoy.
1. Chapter 1

He's mesmerized by the colors, unable to stop himself from touching again and again. She is fire and sunset, the slant of late afternoon light glancing just so off of chestnut curls. And the light forms a halo as his fingers tangle again and again.

"Reading, Rumple," she murmurs, the words curt though her tone is indulgent.

"Read on, then," he chuckles, not surprised in the least when her head doesn't move an inch from its cushion against his thigh. His good foot is braced on the floor, guiding the swing into a gentle sway, though careful not to go far enough to jostle her off of it.

The leaves are rustling as they fall, the piles growing all around. He'll hire Henry this Saturday to rake them up. After all, it's the sort of agreement made between grandfathers and grandchildren. The fifty he'll slip the boy will only serve to make the chore that much more worthwhile. Although he knows the boy would do it for free simply to please Belle.

It should bother him that Henry took to Belle like a duck to water, when his own relationship with his grandson was often times strained. But it doesn't. Belle has him wrapped around her graceful little pinkie, whether she ever realizes it or not. Why should his grandson be any different?

Another gust of wind, and he twitches the quilt draped around Belle, tucking it closer around her. There's a half murmur of something that might be thanks, but she's too lost in her book to make it intelligible, and he's too lost in her and this moment to care.


	2. Unexpected Moments

He is sure that Henry is making a perfectly good point about princes and swords, but at the moment Rumplestiltskin can't hear anything. And he can't see anything.

Except one thing. He can see Belle, across the diner and looking surprised with her arms full of baby Alexandra.

They stopped Granny's for a late lunch, as he made a point either to drop off lunch and insist she stop to eat or to drag her from her library each day for a quick lunch. Today it hadn't happened until nearly two o'clock. By the time they were polishing off their meal, Henry had arrived for an after school snack, and Ashley had dropped by to see Granny.

Somewhere between Henry's questions about the Dark Castle and his questions about Rumpelstiltskin's reputation as a rather excellent swordsman, Belle has ended up with an armful of content baby. Both infant and woman are staring at each other in something like amazement, the smaller of the two grabbing a fistful of chestnut curls and gnawing at them as though giving her tacit approval.

"Ah… hello there…" the soft words travel to his ears, and he doesn't care that he's grinning like an idiot while Belle very carefully slides into an un-used booth and settles herself down. He can't catch most of what she's saying because she's just far enough away, and Henry's asking what's going on as the boy kneels in his seat and twist around to follow his line of sight.

Whatever she's saying, she is talking slowly and steadily, and he's sure Belle must be telling Alexandra a story because his favorite librarian is wholly absorbed, the way she gets when she's lost in a book.

He remembers she mentioned, once, that her childhood was a bit lonely. That she had learned at an early age that books could be her closest friends. There were not any children around the castle, the ones in the village were always busy learning a trade or off in the fields. Even Gaston was a good five years her senior, and she hadn't remembered seeing him until she was nearly at her fourteenth winter. He was much too busy riding and learning the art of war to bother with a girl.

For someone with so little experience with children, she was managing Alexandra with ease. There was a moment when the baby fussed, a breath of protest while Belle reclaimed her soggy curl, but she was quieted quickly. In minutes the child was tucked against her shoulder and sleeping with the ferocious intensity that only small children could achieve.

"She would make a good mom."

It's Henry, and while the comment is one that Rumplestiltskin agrees with, it still catches him by surprise. When he looks over at the boy, the impish half smile is one that Rumplestiltskin knows all too well. How he never guessed the boy's heritage before Manhattan is beyond him. "H—" he starts to say.

But before he can say anything else, he is cut off by the boy repeating the words. "She would make a good mom."

And he can't deny the truth in the words.


	3. Rumbelle With a Side of Fluff

_Some lovely fluff for you, my dearies. Enjoy. Thanks to all who review. I'm glad you enjoy it. It's very fun to write._

Belle was fully aware that he was standing behind her, no doubt leaning against the bookcase with affected patience. The corner of her mouth twitched into a wider smile as she finished filing the last of the books in her arms. Turning carefully, she gave him her sunniest of smiles. "A gentleman caller, what will Storybrooke say?"

His free hand lifted up, almost in supplication, and when she took it, he guided her easily down the two steps to the solid ground. "They'll not say a word if they know what's good for them."

"Rumple," she scolded playfully. Her fingers tangled with his as they made a leisurely route to the circulation desk.

"And what's good for you is sitting right there at your desk," Rumplestiltskin nodded, indicating the brown paper bag waiting for them.

She did her best to give him a leveling glare, but he simply stared down at her with perfect calm. "Rumple."

"Belle," he countered simply.

"I ate a very lovely snack of strawberries late this morning, compliments of Ruby. And Granny is sending over all sorts of goodies almost daily. Yesterday she sent over so many cookies that I had to give most of them away at story hour. At this rate, you'll have to widen the library doors so I can roll through."

They rounded the counter, and he ushered her into a seat at the small worktable. He handed over her bottle of water first, then carefully set out the plasticware and napkin in a formal place setting. "I'll have you know that I did not say a single word when you were standing on the ladder."

Belle lifted the napkin, unfolding it and draping across her lap. "It was two steps high, and I'm in perfectly sensible flats. Even if we both know I'm not clumsy on my feet." It was true. She might have fumbled a cup or two, but she wasn't one to go tripping all over herself.

"And I didn't say a word of protest that you continue to keep full library hours, despite numerous offers to hire an assistant for you," he countered, opening a fresh salad and placing it before her, a little cup of dressing nested beside it.

She poured the mixture over the greens and speared a bite. "I honestly _like_ the work. Once it was cleaned and opened, it's actually been very easy to maintain."

He shook his head ever so slightly. "And I haven't mentioned my objections to the work of shelving books, despite the fact that Henry and Grace are to be student assistants and are more than suited to the task."

The corner of her mouth twitched as she enjoyed a few bites, surprised to note the time on the clock. It was nearly two in the afternoon. Her student assistants would be here soon. Belle chased down the bite with a drink of her water. "They keep the children's section, which is all low shelves and forever a mess." It was the hardest area for her access, and even her preference for skirts made it a challenge, much less the changes these days. It was all crouching and bending. Admittedly, her help was keeping the young adult and media sections as well.

He easily drew out a final container from the bag. One long finger slid under the catch, releasing the lid on the styrafoam box containing a single cheeseburger, medium-well, with the works. He was indulging her in a favorite today. After he slid it into place, he looked her over, the corner of his mouth turning into an affectionate grin. Reaching forward, he caught a stray curl, tucking it behind her ear. "And despite all the things I _don't_ mention," Rumplestiltskin paused a half moment for the irony, "I will always insist on bringing you a proper lunch. You're eating for two now."

Her fingers caught his, turning his palm up and pressing a warm kiss into it. The dear, dear man. And she smiled. Because she couldn't and wouldn't counter that.


	4. A Very Good Plan

He reached, scowling before he even opened his eyes over the lack of a warm body beside him. The spot still held a little heat, but no person was present. He'd had a plan. A very good, very well-thought out plan.

She was supposed to be curled in her spot beside him, still snuggled contentedly between him and the pillows she insisted on keeping close. When started to get up, she would murmur something groggily, and he would shush her with a kiss to her forehead and by tucking the pillows and blankets around her before making his way downstairs.

But it wasn't working out like he'd planned, not one single bit. He didn't like it when his plans didn't work out, especially the good plans. Belle required a cuppa to get her started, which he usually started while she took a few moments in the restroom before meeting him downstairs. She would see to some fresh fruit and juice, while he tended to eggs, toast, and occasionally porridge or bacon. It was an easy routine, familiar. Breakfast was eaten at the bar, while he read the paper and she struggled to fully awake, sometimes borrowing sections to read for herself or occasionally asking him to read stories aloud when she felt more lucid.

The evening before he had carefully mixed together some batter for her favorite muffins, banana nut. It was chilled and only needed to be scooped into the muffin tin and baked. He'd planned out the whole thing. Fresh orange juice purchased the day before. Rumplestiltskin had some roses that should be hitting peak bloom now, easy to clip one or two for the breakfast tray. He'd meant to surprise her with breakfast in bed on this late autumn Sunday. And keep her in bed as much as he could today.

And she was missing already. He'd found his bed clothes waiting on the night stand (no telling exactly _where_ they had landed last night), and had struggled into them and was halfway down the steps when she appeared at the foot. Clad in his robe and her own pair of house slippers.

Her smile was unusually bright for the early hour, and she was holding a tray in both hands. Her smile fell a tiny bit. "You're meant to be sleeping."

"Very much awake, my bed was cold," he easily replied, pouting—yes, he had to admit it was a pout—as he added that last bit.

The smile brightened a bit, a hint of teasing in those blue eyes. She nodded toward their room. "It won't be for long. I saw the muffin batter last night, and you're always baking. It's my turn to do the cooking. Besides, I haven't burnt anything in ages."

He nodded slightly, "I'm not going to back to an empty bed, then?"

She shook her head slightly and gave the firmest stance she could with her hands full of the tray. Under different circumstances, they would be on both her hips in indignation. "Well, _I'm_ having breakfast in bed, and I'd hoped for company."

"Only too glad to oblige, sweetheart," he chuckled, turning and wondering what, exactly, she might or might not be wearing underneath. Breakfast in bed was definitely a good plan.


	5. Bon Appetit

_Yet another domestic Rumbelle fic, this one was inspired by last night's failed attempt at macaroni & cheese from scratch. Thank you all for your kind reviews. I'm glad you enjoy reading as much as I love writing._

Something smelled very good—that was the first thing that Mr. Gold noticed as he let himself into his home. He had learned, however, that good smells could be deceiving. Just last week Belle had attempted macaroni and cheese from scratch, and it had certainly smelled good when he walked in the door. But the sauce was thicker than she'd expected, and something about the taste of the paprika (or was it the Worcestershire sauce?) hadn't set well. He should've expected trouble when she'd called him at the shop to ask what a _roux_ was. The whole thing congealed quickly, and he had consoled her with a hamburger at Granny's.

"Sweetheart?" he called, leaving his overcoat on the rack in the entry and making his way toward the scent of food.

"In here, Rumple," she replied, rewarding him with a sunny smile as he leaned his cane against the counter and joined her at the counter. A baking sheet was waiting, dough spread out and pre-cut triangles waiting to be rolled. "I cheated with the dinner rolls," she admitted the obvious, not even bothering to sweep aside the mangled tube.

He stepped behind her, easily sweeping aside her tresses and dropping three warm kisses against the curve where her neck met her shoulder and moving toward the nape. "You don't have to make everything. We could hire a cook if you wanted," he murmured against her skin.

"I like learning it," she countered, easily rolling the dough and lining each piece on the waiting sheet. "And are you implying my cooking is sub-par?" came the light and teasing reply. She held no illusions about her lacking skills in the kitchen, but when she had decided she wanted to improve, he had bought her any and all ingredients and an apron all her own.

A soft chuckle, and he gave her hip an affectionate pat. "I would never," he swore.

"Technically true, but you didn't deny it, either," Belle easily countered, giving him a grin over her shoulder. "C'mon, if you're going to stand there, you may as well help."

"As my lady commands," he gave a little half bow, nothing like his deep, affected bow in their old world, but enough to stir the memory of a certain afternoon and a foolish man-child turned rose. Brushing off the memory, he settled into the familiarity of her humming some light, airy tune while he washed his hands and saw to the salad. "And what's on the menu, tonight?"

Before she could answer, the timer went off. "Oh, could you get it out of the oven?" she asked. "The Dutch oven is hard to manage."

"Of course," he answered, thinking it might be better this way. For one, despite his lean build, he had much more upper body strength than she did. He might have to look into a smaller, lighter Dutch oven for her. He hated to think about Belle struggling with it, much less when it was hot from the oven. And, at least this way he could get a sneak peek at the food—if it hadn't turned out right, he could let her down gently.

Gold opened the oven and pulled out two potholders. Shifting his weight carefully, he eased the rack enough to reach in and take hold of the handles. He transferred it to the stovetop smoothly and closed up the oven before lifting the lid. The smell was divine. "_Coq a vin_?" he asked, eyebrows raised in surprise. The dish was a little messy, but the chicken looked as though it was thoroughly cooked, and the pearl onions were a warm golden hue.

"Mhmm." She was by his side in a moment, blue eyes lit up. "Oooh, it looks so lovely."

"When did you learn to make this?" he asked, still shocked. She'd managed a good chicken and noodles, mastered spaghetti and its sauce, roast, and several casseroles. He knew Granny had given her several lessons in the basics and intermediate dishes. But this was her most ambitious dish.

She nodded to the tablet that he had bought her a few weeks ago. "I found it on that. There's a … channel, right? Like on Ruby's television?"

"Yes, channel," he assured her, leaning against the counter as she explained.

"Every day this woman comes on the show, Julie Child, and she demonstrates how to cook the food. Some of it I can't do, yet. Granny explained some of things to me—blanching and cooking things. Anyway, yesterday she showed how to make this one. So today I went back and … well, made it."

"It looks delicious," he assured her, setting the lid aside so she could see for herself while he hunted down a bottle of wine and two glasses.

Her grin grew as she realized he wasn't being kind for her sake—that it truly had turned out nicely. "Do you think we can travel sometime to her home?"

"Whose?" Gold asked distractedly as he fished the corkscrew out of the drawer.

"Julia. Julia Child. Some place called Cambridge—I looked it up, it's not terribly far. Not like California. Do you think we can travel some day and visit her? I'd like to meet her, she's very funny."

Silently cursing, he set down the bottle on the counter and stepped closer. "Belle… that show was recorded some time ago. Years and years, in fact."

"Oh?" she answered, taking the sheet of rolls and sliding them into the oven.

He gave her a moment to set the timer before continuing. "Yes, in fact probably fifteen, twenty years or more ago."

"But… I see a new one every day," she had turned to face him now, forehead wrinkling in confusion. "That's not… part of the curse? I thought only Storybrooke was affected?"

"No, it doesn't have to do with the curse," he struggled to explain this gently. "Shows were recorded and the record was stored, sort of like the library stores books. People can read a book many, many years even after it was written. These shows can be put online years and years after they were recorded."

Her face fell, bottom lip trembling just once before she said what he was trying _not_ to say. "She died."

Gold nodded. "Some time ago."

"Oh," came the soft answer, apparently the only words she could find to say. His book worm was at a loss for words, and that rarely happened. He hated that a friend—one sided though the friendship had been—was torn from her. And he wished he had thought of this earlier—explaining that things from a long time ago could be there, to watch and read.

He drew her close, pleased when she rested her head in the crook of his neck. Please that he could comfort her like this, even if he couldn't wholly ease the disappointment. They relaxed like that, and he savored the minutes until the rolls were finished. In the last minute before the timer, he guided her to the waiting glasses and the wine that had been breathing in the meantime.

Pouring easily, he handed over a glass for her and took the second. "To Julia Child," he said quietly, clinking his glass against hers. Only later would he realize she didn't understand this custom with the toast, but she seemed to grasp the importance of the moment and followed his lead.

She gave him a small nod. "_Bon appétit_," Belle incanted before taking a sip like he had, to seal the memory and the moment.


End file.
